


The First Draft

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [17]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen, Literary References & Allusions, My dog ate it, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>October 1637, Blois.Athos began his memories under one far-from-auspicious sign and Raoul almost lost a cherished possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Draft

_A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of._ _  
_~Ogden Nash__

Athos stared at the page. Finally, it wasn't a blank page what his eyes peruse, like the previous days. There was a sense of accomplishment in starting a sort of diary. He hung his bottom lip for a moment, giving the idea the due consideration. No, not a diary, those were his memories.

Athos passed his fingers thought the edge of the sheets, a good deal was written in that gloomy October morning, more than he had wrote the last ten years. It was a good intellectual exercise to write a coherent sentence while the rain drummed on the shutters. As he interlaced his fingers behind his head, Athos gave the weather a thought. Cold rain was not good at this time of the year and he found himself fortunate of having no crops to care of. With the satisfactory feeling of having achieving something, even something as banal as starting his memories, Athos rise from his chair and decided to treat himself with a hot mug of tea.

Pleased from being able to manage the treacherous and steep backstairs, Athos descended the steps humming one of those randy, yet inventive, tavern airs Porthos used to sing when the wine was on him. Athos was well aware of the lyrics, but he refused to sing them aloud because Raoul was set on repeat every word that could fall from Athos' lips and the last thing he wanted was his boy to use soldier's language before his time.

The kitchen was hot; Charlot's wife was busy giving Raoul and Blaisois a bite to eat while the couple of rascals were drying their clothes by the heart. Athos signaled his greetings and, without ceremony, he filled a mug with one of the infuser ball that sat over the mantle and hot water from the metal jar Charlot's wife had always ready over the fire. Then he scurried away before the poor woman would notice the master served his own tea, she would have a fit and Athos was in far too good mood to take care of a little domestic tragedy.

When he returned to his chair, his desk and his quill, he noticed the absence immediately. The budding document was not where he left it. That made no sense, since he only went downstairs and immediately went up, he didn't stop to talk to Grimaud about checking the stables, he didn't asked Charlot's wife about dinner, he didn't even exchange a word with Raoul; he felt a need to return to his folder and his folio, which, coincidentally, had been vanished from its place.

Frowning, almost sulking, Athos wondered who would be bold enough to enter his private rooms and steal something written from his own hand. It was unseemly that anyone in Bragelonne had taken the master's belongings. It had never happened before; people in the castle are trusted servants, honest people in general.

The soft whining behind him helped him to clear the mystery —that sound had been the herald of Raoul's presence those last months —, until he realized that behind him there was only the door of his bedroom. And said door was closed.

For a moment, the idea of scolding Raoul by trespassing brewed in his brain, and then it came to his senses that Raoul was in the kitchen with Charlot's wife and Blaisois; there was no way Raoul could get his dog and rushed stairs up without his knowledge. The dog was in his room, without its master or any supervision whatsoever, and Athos rushed to the door and opened it.

The scene was quite appalling, to say the least. The first thing on which his eyes were laid was the folder, that soft, red damask leather folder was gutted in the middle of the floor, small scraps of paper, some with ink, some still clean were thrown around. The fate of his papers was clear as a warm summer morning sky, it was such a shame his inner mood was darker than a winter night. Yet, even at the brink of apoplexy fit Athos was a man of shrewd understanding. First, he would catch the mutt; then he would skin it!

Athos entered his bedroom with light, even steps, the beast was a calm one, if he could avoid giving it a start, it would be easy to seize; his eyes scrutinized every corner waiting for the whining to be repeated. The room was selected because it was easy to guard, there was only one door and high windows; the furniture was sparse and practical, yet fitting his rank. Where on Earth the damned beast could find a place to hide?

Of course, the dust ruffle.

Athos knelt by the side of the bed and lifted the piece of cloth; the room was dim but under the bed it was a dark pit where shadows gathered and nurtured pieces of the still of the night. It was silent too; not a clue of the raspy breath of the animal, not a whining to draw attention to any corner. That inspection done, Athos sat on his heels, baffled by the unsatisfactory outcome.

The yapping —he could not call that sound a bark— unnerved him a bit before the fact that the dog was on his bed, among the pillows, fell into his brain. There was the beast with some scrunched and wet pieces of paper with Athos' neat calligraphy on them.

"You…" the rest of the sentence was an incoherent growl.

All was happening at an uncanny speed, Athos always believe his time at sea and army trained his brain to react to action. Athos was not thinking, he leapt to the bed trying to grab the puppy, but that sudden movement give the beast the scare of its life, it narrowly escaped those hands because it stop to collect the paper before jumping off the bed, whining the whole time. Athos, meanwhile, crashed to his headboard and raised a racket that rendered impossible his plans of a swift capture; when he recovered his wits he ran after the animal that was raising a ruckus worse than his. Athos only invested a couple of strides to cross his bedroom, but by the time he reached his study the only thing in sight was the wagging tail of the dog; for a heartbeat he considered a short sprint was all was needed, then his foot slipped on a puddle and the momentum sent him face-first onto the floor.

As Athos tried to regain his foot his mind worked the puzzling appearance of that liquid in an otherwise dry floor: dog piss.

God help him, Raoul's pet soiled his rooms.

That was it.

That dog was no more, one way or another, Athos vowed to get rid of that troublesome presence.

Athos was barely aware of Raoul's head peaking at the balustrade of the back steps; most of his attention was on the critter that was getting away. By the time Athos reached the stairwell Raoul was placing his foot on the last step. Neither the beast nor the men heed his presence, they both, dog and man, passed by the child's side at breakneck speed.

Then, time changed rhythm again, in the opposite direction and in an inconvenient manner, as it used to.

From the moment where Raoul's voice left his lips Athos felt how slow his own movements where when he turned around and saw that Raoul lost hold of the handrail as he was climbing without minding his proper grasp on the wood in spite of the overly repeated advise to do so. Athos was annoyed when a part of his mind got angry at Raoul's disregard of the safety rules, by an effort of will —and to be honest, a good deal of panic—he shifted his focus to the body of his boy falling backwards down the stairwell.

Raoul's face just expressed a mild surprise when he lost his footing. The child was not aware that behind and below him there was only a vacant space and that he would plummet to a certain death, but the horror must be clear on Athos' face because their eyes met and the kid's countenance started to contort with alarm and fear.

Athos was sure he won't be quick enough, he could see how his arm reached the space between them, how his fingers stretched in front of him; he surely didn't feel how his knees hammered the wooden floor with enough force to bruise the flesh. Raoul was falling down and he won't be able to stop him. The sensation of his third finger touching his boy's wet shirt was frightening, just the tip of his finger on the armscye of that light fabric that could be torn or slip since there was no other hold; Athos felt his back strained, and another tip, his ring finger this time, hook into the fabric. For a brief beat of Athos frantic heart, the grip began to consolidate.

There had been no time to get used to the feeling, Raoul reacted frantically at the sight that extended arm; he tried to hold the limb with desperation and once more Athos felt his child escaped his grip because his fingers lost touch and his hand opened when the twenty pounds of Raoul's weight pulled the half-healed shoulder out of place again with a sudden and sharp stab of pain.

Raoul flinched when he noticed the wince in Athos' face and tried to let go his sole point of support, but the other arm was already around his girth pulling him to safety. Only then, with Raoul's head tucked under his chin, Athos allowed himself to let out a groan, a small one, almost a whimper, among short gasps for air.

The child, tiptoed at the edge of the step, shuddered and moaned before burying his face on Athos' shoulder, and God was merciful enough to let him choose the good one. In a fit of fatherly affection Athos lack arms to caress the boy he almost lost, his left hand pressed Raoul's head against his chest and his mouth kissed that sweaty temple in a vain effort to dispel the fright; he was not master of his mind as he was of his body, a hundred of different scolding speeches ran right through his mind, but all he could mutter was: "You are safe, Raoul."

Raoul sobbed into Athos' shoulder; almost prompting the same response in the adult as relief flooded Athos like a warm wave. Not even the yapping of the dog or his paws on his shirt, or the second-hand licking he got when the beast tried to get Raoul's attention could mitigate that feeling.

"Pa…" Raoul called, once his crying fit subdued.

"Tell me," Athos had his eyes closed, enjoying the comfort of his secure presence against his body.

"Your clothes are wet…"

"I'll explain that," Athos promised and opened his eyes, praying that it was just the dog's mess, "along with why Rou is not allowed in the house."

"But it's raining outside!"

Athos didn't answer his boy; his attention was drawn to the silent and bewildered figure standing halfway up the stairs staring at the father, son and dog scene. By Grimaud's expression, Athos reckoned he saw nothing except for what was before his eyes; that would be not a trouble since Raoul would fill him in in a timely fashion.

Athos let go Raoul's back and signaled, as clearly as possible, that Grimaud must send someone to look for the surgeon. A short nod was all the answer required.

...

Athos sat in his favorite chair by the fire, minding his bound shoulder. The weather had been wet for the last two days and the dampness hurt the flesh which helps nothing to cure his sour mood. Even if he knew the puppy was just a beast, Athos felt particularly vengeful, in his secret heart he was planning to get a dogskin purse for himself; if his plans were not more ambitious were due to the lack of material he could extract from the dog.

Of course, such dark plans would never consolidate; Athos rather chew his rancor and sulk in solitude than to hurt Raoul, who was far too attached to the awful puppy. Still, that dog destroyed almost a week of work, Athos had managed to describe his first months in Paris and how Porthos and he laid waste to all Parisian taverns before Aramis came to the musketeers. Athos doubted he would be able to put all of that together in such a coherent fashion; even the style was of his taste...

The movement behind him drew Athos from his commiseration feast; he even made the effort to give his face a veneer of solemnity. His struggles were wasted because it was only Grimaud with a tankard of tea and the remnants of his writing attempts. A quick exchange was enough to consult what would be the final destination of his creative materials.

"I won't take any supper, Grimaud," Athos said and threw the gutted folder and the chewed folios to the fire. "Please, warn Charlot's wife."

Despite the disapproval in his face, Grimaud nodded and went to comply with the order, leaving his master to his grim thoughts. Athos couldn't care less of what Grimaud could think.

"Pa…" Raoul's voice was the next thing that took him off his dark revelry but the budding smile died in his lips when Raoul corrected himself, "I mean, _M. le Comte_ …"

"Tell me, Raoul."

"You told me once that asking for forgiveness it's not enough," Raoul came to Athos chair, the damned mutt at his heels; the beast had the good sense to hide the tail between its legs. "You told me one has to make amends and repair whenever it is possible, right?"

The boy accompanied his words with a sudden movement to place a bounded quire with sturdy leather covers on Athos' knees.

"But, Raoul, it wasn't you who destroy my things."

"I know! It was Rou who is not bad, but young," Raoul explained his case, big eyes full of tears, "You are never cross when I mess around because I know not better. Please don't be cross with Rou, he needs to learn..."

Athos didn't let him continue; he scooped up Raoul with his good arm and hugged him. Sometimes he got the feeling that he was doing something right with that boy and that feeling worth all the chagrin and pain of the world. Raoul hugged him back hard, even the damned mutt recovered its spirits and yapped its content.

"Where did you buy this journal?" Athos asked when he could rein the outpouring of his joy.

"Grimaud took me to Blois," Raoul confessed, trying to find a comfortable place in that lap that was getting rather small for his size. "It was hard to find one."

"And I suppose it took great part of your wealth…"

"I- Hey! Rou!"

Before Athos realized what was happening, Raoul jumped off his lap to go in pursuit of his dog. Rou had stolen the new blank book and was trying to run away from the room with his prey.

"Bad dog!" Raoul cried, "Give it back, Rou!"

Athos saw the chase and sighed. It seemed that God's plans were opposed to his endeavors, maybe it was not ordained that Athos wrote his memories down and who was he to argue with God?

Athos sipped his tea while in a vain attempt to take things philosophically. There was not much he could do about it.

"But if I ever got the chance to give it another try," Athos mumbled to himself, watching the fire where his frustrated attempt was being roasted slowly, "I'll start with how I meet d'Artagnan. Raoul would be upset if he ever knew Porthos and me are not heroes…"


End file.
